Must Be The Music: Old Yellow Bricks
by Beaubier
Summary: Fifth Story in Must Be The Music. With nothing to distract her from her own internal issues, will Rogue be able to stomach an attempt at coming to terms with her own ridiculous relationships? Or will her Awesome Pain prevail?


TITLE: Must Be The Music: Old Yellow BricksAUTHOR: Beaubier  
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: fastlove.for.rentATgmailDOTcom  
FANDOM: X-Men: Evolution  
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Any time, just let me know!  
CATEGORY: Drama/General  
RATINGS/WARNINGS: Rated T for language  
SUMMARY: Fifth Story in Must Be The Music. With nothing to distract her from her own internal issues, will Rogue be able to stomach an attempt at coming to terms with her own ridiculous relationships? Or will her Awesome Pain prevail?  
DISCLAIMER: I didn't invent the X-Men and I have nothing to do with Evolution. If you somehow think I do: Thanks for the compliment, mislaid thought it may be.  
NOTES: This is a sort of sequel to Thicker Than Water (which was a sequel to Relativity and then Here Comes Trouble), but it's not necessary to read that saga to catch on here. I'll make everything clear. That said, this is the fifth in a planned series of several one shots that explore the various main characters from TTW. Some will be serious, some fluffy, some just plain ridiculous (much like Here Comes Trouble, only more disjointed.) These stories will be written in chronological order beginning a few months after the end of TTW. They are generally stand-alone. This one is, but overlaps timewise with the next one, Girlshapedlovedrug. You don't need to read one to get the other at all and vice versa- the stories are unrelated. This one will also have some wrapping up in a later story (Scott's), but nothing you need to see if you hate Cyclops and will never read a Cyke fic ever... or you know. Something like that.

This is Rogue's. If you don't like this one, the next one might suit you better. They'll all be completely different from each other. Except that… you know. I'm writing them all. The current line up is Wanda, Warren, Jean-Paul, Jean, Rogue, Sam, Pietro, Alex, Scott, Aurora. But of course that's subject to change if I get a bug up my nose about something.

A short explanation of what the hell I'm doing here: When I write I have music for every character. Since I suck with titles and generally get most of my inspiration/ideas from music, each story in this planned series will be named after a song (a common cop out for me.) I'll put a few lyrics at the beginning as an example of why because I'm a geek like that. But don't try and match the song up with the story ala Dark Side of Oz. I'm not that clever. I just like music.

Cheers to Risty the Amazing Beta Reader again!

* * *

000

* * *

**Must Be The Music pt. 5**

Old Yellow Bricks  
_You're such a fugitive  
But you don't know what you're running from  
You can't kid us  
And you couldn't trick anyone  
Houdini, luv you don't know what you're running away from_  
-Arctic Monkeys

St. Patrick's Day. Just another capitalist nightmare. Greeting cards printed up for nothing real at all and a billion green beers demolishing what little sanity was left to the western world.

Rogue had looked St. Patrick up. He was German… or something not Irish, anyhow. English maybe. Whatever.

"Why would I want to go to their stupid party?"

Jean-Paul made a patronizingly understanding face. Gee, he was clever. "Oh is your social calendar full? My mistake."

"They don't even like me," she pointed out.

The Brotherhood. A collection of idiots and misfits. Apart from Wanda they were all completely worthless—and even Wanda wasn't exactly to be trusted. Mindwipe or no, she was Fucking Crazy. Fun… but Fucking Crazy.

And no, it was nothing to do with the fact that she'd been one of them. That she'd spent hellish days and nights in that house under the impression that the X-Men were training to kill her (which, to be honest, was kind of true. She just tended to blame that on Xavier now, which somehow let her sleep at night) and that Mystique would take care of things.

Yeah. That definitely didn't have anything to do with it. Anyhow, Pietro annoyed the shit out of her.

And it might have a little something to do with the fact that Remy LeBeau had expressed a distinct interest in seeing her there. Maybe. Not that she was scared of him. Cause she wasn't.

But she was tired of dealing with him anyhow. Man didn't know how to take a hint.

"Well what do you suggest?" Jean-Paul was still making that patronizing understanding face. A real saint, that guy. "Maybe you can think of a better place for us to get loud and drink extreme amounts of alcohol and not have to drive home? Some other massive house with no adult supervision nearby that I'm not aware of?"

"Pietro just wants to be the center of attention," she pointed out, and rolled her eyes.

"Thank you for that deep, cutting analysis, Dr. Freud."

"Fuck off," she suggested with a complete and utter lack of resolve.

"No." He was unaffected by her faux-ire. "Not till you promise."

"What do you care if I go anyhow?"

He stopped walking. They were almost in the center of the foyer now, on their way to lunch. Other kids were running past them, Sam and Ray were throwing a ball over their heads at one point. But Jean-Paul didn't even notice. He just stared at her, eyes narrowed. Looking like he might spring and tear her throat out with his teeth at any moment if she made any sudden moves.

He was scary like that sometimes.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. If she met them she'd get all red and look embarrassed. Which she was. But yeah, this was a conversation she didn't want to have. Even with him.

Well, not right now anyhow.

"Well?" he crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one leg, so one hip was slightly pushed out. He might as well have been tapping his foot at her.

"Forget it."

"No," he said again, this time even more firmly. "What is your problem today?"

"Yeah, I really want to confide in you now," she snorted.

"You little bitch," he growled.

"Look who's talking," she growled right back.

"Fine," he stuck his nose up in the air and started walking again just like that. "But if you aren't there I'll never forgive you."

He would. She knew he would.

But probably not for a month or two.

She sighed and started after him. Wondering what the fuck _was _her problem. And why did he care anyhow? He'd just spend the whole night plastered to Pietro Maximoff—not like he'd even notice if she came or not. Who would?

Aside from Remy LeBeau. And Jesus Tap-dancing Christ she was sick of that name.

* * *

"Rogue!"

She sighed. She'd heard the BAMF! that came with her "little brother." She'd smelled that sulfur stink he insisted on bringing everywhere with him. But she hadn't turned around.

It was 9pm. There was only one reason he'd be here.

"Hey, ready to go?"

She turned around in her chair, closing the diary on her desk as she did so. Not that she thought he'd try and peek… but it was Kurt. Christ alone knew what he'd do next. He might think it was a book of sonnets and start reading it out loud to her or something retarded like that.

"Go where?" she asked.

"Ah, duh," he pointed at his watch, tail lashing behind him. He wasn't using the image inducer—he hardly ever did these days. Just at school, mostly to avoid distracting the other students, at his teachers' requests.

He did enough of that without being blue and furry apparently.

But he was decked out. A pair of low rise jeans and a white button down (that somehow, miraculously, didn't involve tropical flowers or hula girls all over it) made him look ready for a night out. He cleaned up okay for someone with the body of a Muppet.

Yeah, that wasn't a nice thought. But she was full of not-nice thoughts tonight, apparently. She'd purposely been hiding in her room all night after dinner so she wouldn't see everyone all ready to go out and start spouting venom at them. She didn't feel like answering questions about what was wrong or why she was so sad or… whatever lame things they'd ask her.

"Party at the Brotherhood House. St. Patrick's Day!" He came to stand next to her chair and stare at her expectantly. Like a puppy waiting to be taken out.

She just looked at him, impassive. "He was German."

"Ah, even more reason to celebrate! We have better beer anyhow, _nein_?" He elbowed her conspiratorially as he threw in the random German word for emphasis.

She recoiled from his touch on instinct. And then swore under her breath, since she knew goddamn well that'd give her away.

The smile fell off his face instantly. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head and looked back down at the diary. Which was fucking stupid, seeing as it was closed now anyhow. "Nothing. I'm just not feeling well."

"Should I ask Mr. McCoy to—"

"No," she said sharply. When she looked up to meet his eyes again she could see that he was hurt. Glowing yellow eyes somehow conveyed way more emotion than the normal browns greens blues and grays of her other roommates. She wasn't sure why, but it was kinda unnerving sometimes.

"Well… what can I do?" he asked helplessly, three-fingered hands falling to his sides in defeat.

She sighed. "I'm sorry Kurt. I just don't feel like being social, okay?"

"Don't feel like being social… or don't feel like being happy?" he ventured.

Her face screwed up into her Meanest Look Possible. "What are you talking about?"

Kurt actually had the gall to grin at her at that point. Apparently mortal peril was his thing. "I promise, if you start getting too happy I'll get you out of there. No one will ever know."

"That's _not_ why I don't want to go," she insisted, drawing a deep breath. He did this on purpose and she knew it. It was his little way of getting her to agree to whatever he wanted. He was a professional manipulator. Oh yeah, he seemed real nice and cheerful and sweet, but when Kurt Wagner wanted something…

"Then why?"

"Because I don't like the company," she grouched.

"Surely you don't mean—," he finished the sentence by gesturing to himself.

She sighed yet again. "No. I don't."

"Well I can keep Gambit away from you."

"I didn't say—"

"Rogue, seriously," he laughed. "I'm your brother. I know."

She bit back another Mean Thought, this time along the lines of, _you're not my brother_. For one, it was too hard to be mean to him and always had been for her. And for another… it wasn't true. In more ways than one, Kurt was her brother. They'd been through too much, and he'd forgiven her too much, for anything else to be true. Pain in the ass and all.

"It's not _just _that," she argued instead.

"I know, and I promise I won't tell anyone if you have a good time."

She just rolled her eyes. "I have a good time… a lot."

"Whatever," he just laughed back at her. "Are you wearing that?"

She looked down at her scrubs and Transylvania University Vamps crop top. Yeah… maybe not. "Give me five minutes, you little blue squirrel."

He snapped his fingers. "And away we go!"

And then he was gone.

She was left staring at a cloud of sulfur. Wondering how he always did that to her- that thing where he got whatever the hell he wanted.

It was probably one of those secrets of the universe that caused instant madness upon understanding though. One of secrets best left kept. For the sake of all mankind.

* * *

"I hate you so much," she growled under her breath as Kurt opened the door and bowed elaborately, gesturing for her to enter the house before him.

She didn't _need _to enter the house to feel it shaking. The stereo was pumped up fairly high in the living room, blaring some kind of loud guitar rock that she was mostly unfamiliar with—all she knew was some guy was shouting in a bad Irish accent.

But she went in anyhow, slipping through the door into the foyer. From there she had a clear view of the living room—which was almost as empty of furniture as it was full of teenagers. Sure, a few local mutants _hadn't _turned up—Jean, Aurora and Warren were at some thing at NYSU apparently. And Scott had been kept out of the loop for the sake of his own sanity, as usual.

But as far as she could see, everyone else was here.

She froze, watching for just a moment. Some kind of light system was hooked up and there were… decorations. Sparkly shamrocks hung from the ceiling… lots of sparkly shamrocks in varying sizes and on varying lengths of sparkly thread. Rogue just blinked, trying to equate this bouncing room full of teenagers cheerfully jumping up and down with their white-kid groove, working on early buzzes with a cheap beer in every hand, with the place she'd spent her first few months in Bayville. And failing at it, for the most part.

Shamrocks. Shiny green twirling foil _shamrocks_.

"Hey there Rogue, 'bout time you showed up. Jean-Paul is about to have a coronary. Herehaveabeer."

A Coors Light appeared in her hand, but Pietro Maximoff was already working on Kurt. "You too," he slapped a beer into the fuzzy blue one's hand. "Enjoy, it's not my money. Like the decorations? Yeah, I did that. If you see Lance trying to pull them down let me know, k? I told him he'll wake up wearing them if he fucks them up. Come on, go have fun. Johnny's in the back yard lighting fires."

And then he was gone just as fast as he'd been there.

Rogue took a look at the beer in her hand… then suddenly lifted it and knocked back half of it in one long string of gulps.

Kurt stepped up beside her and did the exact same thing. Only when he finished he grinned, dragged his arm across his mouth, then announced, "Party time!"

He then launched himself into the mass of kids in the living room, catching Jubilee by the waist and swinging her around a few times before they started dancing.

Rogue polished off her beer, crushed it in one hand and tossed it against the staircase carelessly. Then went into the kitchen in search of another one.

This was going to be a long fucking night.

* * *

Wanda was alone on the couch in the living room. The first part of that made the couch attractive (the part about it being Wanda and not someone completely irritating)… the second (the part about it being in the living room) was more prohibitive. However, after three beers in the kitchen listening to Roberto try and convince Rahne that she shouldn't go home right now and she should definitely come dance at least once, Rogue had become convinced that if she didn't find agreeable company soon she was going to have to kill someone.

There was something way too depressing about being at a party surrounded by laughing smiling people hanging all over each other half drunk… and being alone.

So the couch it was. Rogue made her way there with her arms full of beers, threw one to Wanda and flopped down next to her.

"How long as this been going on?"

Wanda smiled that weird not-quite-smirky smile of hers. Painted up with red lipstick like she always was, that heavy eye makeup and her penchant for red and black, she looked like a goth princess. Complete with studded black leather collar.

Rogue thought that was pretty funny, since it was Sam who clearly needed a collar. But she kept that to herself, as another Mean Thought.

"A few hours," Wanda answered, cracking open the beer and nodding at it. "Thanks."

Rogue just nodded in return, opening one of her own and depositing the other two between the couch cushions for safe keeping. She scanned the somehow-growing crowd and realized that there were kids she didn't know there too—people from Bayville High. Friends of various X-Men… or even Brotherhood.

Flatscan kids.

Wow. The world was getting weirder and weirder every day.

"Rogue!"

She looked up when she heard her name. It was Ray, waving at her from the middle of what was now the dance floor. Bobby was nearby, bouncing up and down like a right jackass.

"Come on!" he yelled, waving for her to join them.

She shook her head and avoided his eyes after that.

"You don't like to dance?" Wanda sounded surprised.

Rogue sucked on her beer before coming up with a decent answer. "I like it. Just not in the mood."

"Drink more," Wanda suggested.

Gee. Who knew she was so helpful.

The music changed. Rogue thought she spotted Kitty, Forge and Alex leaning over a laptop that was propped somewhere in the dilapidated entertainment center against the far wall, their faces all lit up with the glow from it. No doubt they were responsible for this madness. Rogue braced herself for Britney Spears or the Grateful Dead…

And instead she got KMFDM.

She blinked.

Everyone else bounced, a few of them (Ray most notably) cheering.

And Sam suddenly appeared. "They're playing our song, huh?"

Wanda reached up and took his hand.

And Rogue was alone with her beers, sitting in the middle of her couch.

Great. Well now she couldn't exactly leave 'cause it'd look like she cared if someone was sitting with her. But she couldn't stay either because _then _it'd look like she'd welcome company or… something. Which she wouldn't. Well, maybe JP or Kit, but Kitty at least looked like she was having fun. Along with pretty much everyone else she knew in the whole world…

Sans Remy. Hopefully he was drunk in a ditch somewhere in true New Orleans fashion and she wouldn't have to hear from him at all. That'd be just fan-fucking-tastic.

Bobby and Amara were apparently attempting to swing dance. Clever. Jubilee was getting her freak on with Kurt and Kitty was grinding her perky little backside up against Alex's, both of them laughing like idiots. Forge was standing in the corner… smoking something… which might explain the funny smell in the place, because that didn't look like any store-bought cigarette. Jean-Paul and Pietro were nowhere to be seen, but who knew what that meant (and who wanted to?) Amara was spinning back and forth between Bobby and Ray… even Rahne and Roberto had come into the room, and Rahne was doing some kind of really freaking adorable white girl bounce thing to the music as Alex and Kitty cheered for her.

Rogue… well she _did_ like dancing, but she was too sullen at the moment. She kept thinking of the last time she'd been at a house party. She shouldn't have—she should have been thinking of that night they'd all gone out in the city and had a badass time.

But instead she was thinking of getting asked to dance for the first time. And she was thinking of Cody.

"Oh little goth girl you look so alone," she heard in her ear suddenly.

She smirked, still looking straight ahead.

You knew your life was fucked up when Jean-Paul Beaubier could look like an angel to you sometimes. "Come to ease my pain?"

JP kissed her like he always did, on the cheek but with her hair between his lips and her skin.

Normally she liked that. It was as close as anyone ever got to her, and she'd never had the heart to tell him not to do it like she did with almost everyone else. Maybe a leftover from that crush from oh so long ago… but probably not. It was just… nice of him.

But tonight it made her stomach feel funny.

Or maybe it was just funny because she'd chugged three crappy beers and was now working on her fourth.

"Is there a reason you're not up and moving your ass?" he asked conversationally, leaning back in the seat next to her and crossing one leg over the other. Like a little prince surveying his kingdom.

She leaned back as well so he could hear her talk over the thumping industrial music. "I'm admiring the decorations."

Jean-Paul rolled his eyes. "Well if he wasn't such a fag I suppose he'd have more complaints about all the fucking. I take the good with the bad."

She laughed, feeling herself relax just a little. She felt a tiny pang of regret for being such a dick to him when he'd tried to convince her to come earlier. She was just… in a mood.

Before she could say anything else there was a bright flash of light outside—orange and hot. Half the kids in the room sent up a big fat cheer, the other half rushed to the window to see what was going on.

"John is making fire dragons in the back… or he was when I was there," JP explained, rolling his eyes.

Actually… that sounded cooler than sitting here watching everyone else get petted and loved on. "Seriously?"

He shrugged. "It's fairly interesting. Pietro thinks so anyhow. Between the two of them I'm not sure how the house is still standing."

Right about then a tangle of Bobby and Amara suddenly crashed into the empty seat cushion, legs flailing, voices screaming. Rogue picked up her beers, shot Jean-Paul an exasperated look, flipped Bobby off, and started toward the door before she could be mortally wounded by their flailing.

"Was it something I said?" She heard Bobby laughing as she walked away.

Rogue turned around and flipped him off again for good measure.

Amara looked ever-so-insulted as she primly tried to straighten out her clothes and hair from whatever had sent them tumbling. But Bobby just laughed some more.

0

There was definitely a huge fire dragon in the back yard.

The thing rose against the black sky, lighting up the surrounding grounds and the back side of the old house, huge and roaring. Not a dragon roar, but the roar of massive flames. Writhing tongues of it formed every part of the creature—from its thirty-foot wingspan to its huge and somehow painstakingly detailed claws. It reared up in the air, beating its wings restlessly.

St. John Allerdyce stood underneath his creation, his arms raised, palms upward, as if he were the pedestal for the thing. Even in a (Rammstein) t-shirt, jeans, Birkenstocks and minus flamethrowers, Rogue was unsurprised to see that the man was still completely batshit insane. His cackle was the only other sound in the night that was immediately obvious over the thumping of the bass inside the house.

And his hair, she could've sworn, was the _exact _same color as his dragon.

Rogue ventured a little closer. There were some kids she recognized from school, one of whom sent a nod of recognition her way. Flatscans, too. Pietro was standing next to them and he sent up a whoop as John made his dragon shoot a long stream of fire toward a nearby tree, cutting it short just before it set the goddamn thing on fire.

A few more steps and she could feel it. Warm on her face. Like it really was a living thing.

She smiled and settled down on the ground a good fifteen feet away from the others. Jean-Paul stole one of her beers as he followed her out and moved to stand next to Pietro, laughing at something his little silver boy-toy said to him when he got there.

Well. This wasn't as bad as inside, anyhow. The dragon started to twist as John gesticulated wildly underneath it like some kind of mad sorcerer. It started to lengthen, its wings shrinking, its face becoming more dog-like. Within moments it was a twisting serpentine Chinese dragon, looping through the air as Johnny cackled underneath it again.

Rogue reached into her back pocket for her Marlboro Lights. When she pulled them out she reached down to grab one out of the pack without looking.

And hit something hard. She looked down to figure out what the fuck was up with her pack… and saw the Queen of Hearts staring at her, flashing orange and red from the spiraling dragon in the air above her.

She snorted and shoved it back into her pocket and out of her sight, then pulled out a smoke and her lighter.

"Allow me."

She looked up to find a lighter already there, waiting all lit up for her.

For just a moment she looked at it. Considering telling Remy LeBeau to shove his lighter up his tight little ass.

But finally she leaned forward and breathed in, catching the end of her cigarette. Remy made himself comfortable on the ground next to her. Uninvited as usual.

Rogue took another drink of her beer and ignored him. She pretended to be watching the Fire Dragon acrobatics that were starting to draw a crowd (some of the kids from inside had come out after the huge explosion of flame that had caught their attention), but really she was just concentrating on _not _paying attention to him.

"You came," he pointed out after she didn't talk for a few minutes.

She saw the look Jean-Paul shot her when he noticed who was keeping her company. Rogue knew JP didn't give a flying fuck about Remy LeBeau—he didn't like him or dislike him. He was just another guy (with, admittedly, the finest ass at the Institute. No one could argue that one), a face in the crowd of People That Didn't Concern Him.

So long as he didn't fuck with Aurora.

But she also knew that JP would come over and bitch Remy out right there and then if she gave the slightest sign that she was uncomfortable.

She just shook her head slightly at him, giving a little shrug for emphasis. She was fine. She could handle it.

Only… she wasn't sure she could.

She'd thought she could for a long time. But after four months… she still wasn't comfortable with him being there. As an X-Man, she had no complaints. But… he just wouldn't stop. He never did anything that she could really be _angry _about, he was just… always there.

And she was sick of it - she was tired of people assuming things about them. She was tired of being associated with him all the damn time. And she was tired of… everything.

Except maybe his ass. But she couldn't help that - she was only human, for Christ's sake.

"Not for you," was her curt reply.

"Course not," he laughed .

It grated on her nerves. So cool, so calm. She knew him so well.

"You don't like me at all," he continued.

His attempt to be ironic did not go unnoticed. "Wish I didn't," she snorted.

She meant it. She wished every day that she didn't understand him. That she didn't know why he did the things he did. That she didn't feel like he was probably the one person in the world who could come close to getting her… that way.

But she'd met his father. And he'd met her mother.

They understood.

The difference being, of course, that Remy was like his father. And Rogue was _nothing _like her mother.

"Why you always trying to hate me?" he asked, smoke trailing lazily from his lips as he asked the question. He leaned back on one arm, long legs sprawled out in front of him. Making himself comfortable. Making himself look like… fantastic.

It'd be a lot easier if he wasn't so fucking hot. At least, that was what she told herself.

"Why can't you just accept the facts," she finally snapped. It was just too much, him coming up to her and lighting her cigarette and… right. Three, almost four beers was enough.

She was done with this shit.

"I can't be _like that_ with you, Gambit."

Gambit. Not Remy. Just Gambit. That'd help.

Infuriatingly, he just shrugged, fixing those glowing-coal red eyes on her. "I can wait."

Wait?

Wait?! For _What_? For a miracle? For the fucking world to end? For groups like that stupid pissant Students for Humanity to finally genetically cleanse the world and feed her a _cure_?

She took a drag on her cigarette to try and hide her irritation, but she knew it did her no good. The sky lit up as the dragon split into two in a sudden display of… well, mitosis, actually. Rogue watched, but didn't really see it. "Why do you do this?" she asked him. "Do you get off on making people miserable? Do you like to remind me what I can't have?"

As she said it she realized that was what bothered her the most. Even if she wanted to… she couldn't. She never, ever could.

It was easy when things were falling apart around her to push it aside. But now, when everyone was happy, when everyone was dancing, when she had time to think...

Now it was pretty goddamn shitty to be Rogue.

"You sure you can't have it?"

Anger flaring, she turned to look at him. He just watched her. She couldn't tell if his eyes just… looked like that, or if it was the fire in the sky reflecting off of them. The light did strange things to the line of his face though—made it more pronounced. Made it more… perfect. Fucking light, telling lies.

Of course she was sure. She really ought to fucking know if she'd figured out a way to turn it off, right?

Yeah. Right.

So what the fuck was he talking about anyhow? He didn't _seem _like an idiot… and he didn't seem like the type to wait around for some girl he couldn't even touch to get control of her powers just to be able to fuck her. She'd seen him with everyone else—she knew he could get what he wanted from pretty much any girl in the place. Why he should bug the shit out of her, the _one _girl who _couldn't _give him what he wanted, even if she'd been inclined to…

Jesus. That was it.

She felt her eyes start to burn, and not from the fire dragon or cigarette smoke. She hid her expression behind her beer can, chugging another half at once to give herself time to digest the thought she'd just had.

For the first time ever, she understood.

It all made so much sense. She wasn't prettier, she wasn't smarter or better than any of the other girls. And she definitely wasn't more likely to agree to sleep with him.

And that was _why _he wanted her. Because… she'd never, ever say yes.

She put the beer can down beside her, took another drag on her cigarette—this time a hard deep one that sent her head spinning immediately. And then, fortified, she finally said, "That's why you like me, isn't it?"

He blinked. "I don't follow."

"You like me," she elaborated, still fighting for control of her expression. She'd had too much to drink too fast, so it was even harder than usual. But she fought hard just the same. "Because you can't have me."

He laughed.

And she knew she was right. The laugh wasn't right at all. No one else would've noticed—but she did.

She blinked away the burning in her eyes again. Fucking… smoke or… whatever.

"That doesn't make a lot of—" he finally started his protest.

But she was ready. She set her jaw and looked him in the eye, daring him to keep going. "Yes it does. It makes perfect sense. I've been in your head."

She heard Kurt saying it to her earlier in the day now, the words came back to haunt her and rattle around inside her skull as she looked at Remy in the firelight.

_Don't feel like being social… or don't feel like being happy? _He'd asked her.

Remy didn't feel like being happy either. He hid it so well, so carefully. He laughed and flirted and played his fucking game. But he was just. Like. Her.

"I know it, Rogue," he said quietly. His voice had gone sweet and warm, dripping comfort all over her. "You the only one who could."

"No," she argued, shaking her head once sharply. This wasn't about her being _able _to—she had on accident. His stupid telepathic shields were a lame excuse for him to create some kind of _connection _with her.

They had more than enough of that as it was.

"I'm the only one who _was_, but that's not the point," she continued. "I'm safe because you know I'll always have to tell you no. That's why you chase after me harder than anyone else."

"Ain't no one else," he said, that strange earnestness he could turn on and off like flipping a fucking light switch bleeding onto his face. His lips turned downward just slightly, red eyes flared. "You know it doesn't mean a thing to me. You're not making any sense, _chere_—"

He reached out to touch her arm, but she jerked away. "Don't touch me." She was hissing when it came out. She took another drag on her cigarette, but wasn't even sure if she inhaled or not. She just did it to hide her face in the smoke. The fire dragons were getting brighter and bigger, dancing above John only thirty feet away from them, if that.

That must be why her face was so hot all the sudden.

And her stomach was a mess from that shitty beer. Fucking cheap ass Brotherhood.

Some kids were yelling happily inside, apparently along with some lyrics to whatever the hell was on the stereo now.

The dragons convulsed, tangled up around each other.

St. John laughed maniacally.

Finally, after a long breath, after a moment of forcing herself to notice everything else in the world around her but _him_, she spoke again. "I said it before, Remy." _Gambit,_ she reminded herself. But it was too late now and she knew it. "You used me once. Why wouldn't you do it again?"

He would and she knew he would. It was just like him. Exactly like him.

She knew because it was just like Mystique, too.

"You know why, Rogue," he breathed her name and her heart jumped.

She crushed her cigarette into the ground violently.

"There wasn't any kind of choice then," he was still saying. "Don't it mean anything to you?"

Yeah. It did.

She reached into her back pocket again and pulled out the Queen. And handed it directly to him.

He shook his head slightly, his eyes trying to catch hers, fervent and searching. Panicked, just a little. Just barely.

"Stop stalking me, Remy," she said. Firmly. Forcefully.

It needed to stop. She should've been in there dancing with her friends. Instead she was out here sulking and watching a crazy motherfucker play with fire and chugging Coors Light.

Her life was fucked up, but it didn't have to be _that _fucked up.

"I'm—"

She didn't want to hear him defend himself. She let go of the card so he was forced to hold it himself and held up a hand between their faces. "Two words. Restraining. Order."

She wouldn't. Not really.

But it still felt good to say it. That kind of good that was squashed up with pain. The kind of good she liked best.

"You got it all wrong, Rogue."

"No," she shook her head at him. She had it all right. Finally. "You do. Leave me alone."

She took her remaining beer in hand and stood to leave. She'd had enough of this party.

"You don't have to be alone." He stood up after her.

She laughed. Shockingly enough, it was a real laugh. Not sarcastic, not fake… just a laugh. "Spare me," she suggested, looking back over her shoulder at him.

"I'll be here," he said finally. "If you change your mind."

But she didn't.

0

Jean-Paul caught her not ten seconds after she left the Brotherhood yard and started on the long walk home in the dark. She'd just cracked open her last beer when he appeared beside her, shoved his hands into his pockets and looked her over carefully.

She didn't look back. But she almost smiled.

She really shouldn't have been such a dick to him today. He didn't deserve it. Sure, he was an asshole… but he had his reasons. He was a good friend. A loyal friend.

She had those nowadays.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Nothing." She looked over at him as she answered. He was even prettier in the dark, she thought. Too pretty, actually. She couldn't imagine why she'd thought he was attractive at first…

Maybe part of her had known he was safe.

Either way, it was kind of funny now. Everything was starting to feel kind of funny now. In that hopeless sort of way that usually led to depression, but amusing nevertheless.

"I told him to stop being creepy. And stop stalking me."

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second, then said, "Why don't you come back? I can kick him out you know—he's only there because John likes him."

"Nah, let them have their fun."

Jean-Paul made a sort of unconvinced face. "When I left John had let his dragons go in favor of questioning Gambit about what a 'romantic hero' generally did when the girl walked out on him. He looked like he'd be happy for an excuse to escape."

Rogue just snorted out a laugh. With Pyro… seriously, who knew? Crazy fucking Australians.

"No thanks," she said anyhow. Then she smiled. "I don't really want to be happy right now, apparently."

He blinked at her honesty. Then reached out and touched her shoulder, stopping her progress down the side of the road. "Can I walk you home at least?" he asked, all seriousness and intense blue eyes.

She smiled then. Genuinely. "I really want to be alone. But… thanks."

He worried the inside of his cheek again for a moment, but finally nodded. And started to walk away.

"Hey," she turned around and stopped him with one word. He looked back at her and she said, "Sorry I was a dick earlier. I know you'd be upset if I hadn't come. I just… you know."

He just raised his eyebrows. "I never know, Rogue."

Implying, of course, that he might like to once in awhile.

"Tomorrow, huh?" she offered.

* * *

The house was empty when she got home. At least as empty as she could ever remember it being—and since it was as big as it was that was good enough. Rogue was glad, anyhow. She couldn't really think of one person she wanted to run into right then.

Except for possibly Logan, for just long enough to convince him that he wanted to give her the bottle of Jack Daniels she knew he kept stashed in the kitchen.

Logan, however, was out with Hank and Ororo. Probably trying to get drunk and failing miserably. Which meant that the stash was all hers

So she'd helped herself and headed up to her room to crack the fucker open on her own. Hopefully it would make her stop thinking.

It hurt. It hurt like a motherfucker that he'd done it again. She wasn't even sure if he _knew _he'd done it again, but he had. And he'd probably keep doing it. But at least now he'd pretty much _have _to leave her out of it. That was as good as she could hope for and she knew it.

But she didn't want to think about it anymore. She just wanted to get wrecked.

She opened the bottle and sat down on the floor beside her bed, kicking off her boots and throwing her gloves across the room. Just as she lifted the bottle to her lips, someone knocked on the door.

She sighed. "What?"

The doorknob turned. Scott's head poked in. "Hey. I didn't know you were…" he trailed off when his eyes fell on the full fifth of straight Kentucky bourbon in her hand.

She waved with the other. "Out or in, Slim?"

Not that she was particularly excited to see him… but all things considered, it could've been worse. She knew he wouldn't rat her out (anymore)… and he was a friend anyhow. They'd been closer in the last few months. It had been nice.

She didn't mind saying hi anyhow. Distraction might be really fucking great, actually. For a minute or two. Or so the beer seemed to be telling her at the moment.

"You… ah…" He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, but then stood looking at her stupidly, hands in pockets, eyebrow cocked.

She rolled her eyes. "You got a problem?"

"No," he pulled his hands out and held them up in front of him in his usual gesture of unconditional surrender. "I just… house is pretty empty. I thought I heard a door close… I was happy to find someone."

She held up the bottle, unsmiling. "It's St. Patrick's day."

Scott cleared his throat and looked down at the whiskey, then back up at her eyes. This time he looked slightly less uncomfortable and slightly more amused. "Yeah, but Logan will probably still kill you."

"Fuck it," she shrugged, raising the bottle as if in a toast. Well he was being tedious as fuck maybe, but it was better than thinking. "To St. Patrick." She then knocked back a long swallow of the stuff, closing her eyes in near ecstasy as it burned its way down her throat and into her belly. Calming whatever leftover pain was there down right away.

Scott was just standing there watching her, looking pretty helpless, so she asked, "Want some?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Uh… no. Rogue… what's going on?"

She shrugged. "Nothing." And then she made a decision. If he was going to be a pain in the ass, he wasn't going to be distracting. So she should clearly kick him out. "Are you drinking or not? Cause if you're not, fuck off. Sober people are shitty company."

Heh. As she said it, she realized it sounded a little off.

Beer talking again. Had to be.

He sighed and came to sit down beside her, leaning back on her bed just like she was, pulling his legs up under him lotus-style. And just when she thought he was going to be cool, he said, "This is illegal, you know."

She shook her head. "Not on St. Patrick's day."

He looked confused. "Irish law?"

She shrugged, "Or German."

"What?"

"Forget it." She held out the bottle instead. "Tug on that."

Scott made a face at it. The kind of face he'd probably make if she'd offered him a snake. He sniffed at it and made an even worse face, but accepted the bottle from her just the same. And then, ever so slowly (and comically. But a lot of things were still desperately funny to her at the moment, so that didn't mean much) he lifted the bottle to his lips… and took the tiniest of sips.

Then choked. "Ah! Oh god, my _throat_."

She took the bottle back and tried not to laugh at him. She thought this was a great improvement from the Mean Thoughts of earlier. See, getting rid of Remy LeBeau once and for all had really helped. She felt better already.

Really she did.

"You ever drink before?"

His face was pink, but he managed not to choke again as he said, "Just once."

She made a face that was meant to communicate her complete lack of belief in that statement. "Liar."

He got indignant immediately. "I did! I was with…"

"Come on," she gestured for him to continue, "Liar."

"JP and Logan," he finally answered, looking a little sheepish.

"Logan?" she was surprised at that name. Not so much the other. That one only surprised her because JP hadn't gloated about it afterwards. "Well then he can't complain, he started you out," she took another good slug of bourbon herself and held the bottle out to him again.

He shook his head. "Seriously, no more."

"Drink it or fuck off."

His eyes darted between her and the bottle again. Then he finally said, "If I stay you'll tell me what's going on with you tonight?"

She rolled her eyes, but said, "Sure."

Not that she expected him to remember she'd said it. If things went right he'd just get fucked up with her and pass out on the floor. And she'd forget everything too. They'd forget together.

That sounded great. Not happy, because she didn't want to be happy. But great.

"Okay," he said finally, accepting the bottle. "Just a little though. Where is everyone anyhow?"

He put the bottle to his lips and took another baby sip as she answered, "Party at the Brotherhood house."

"Oh shit," he sighed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and handing the bottle back.

"Don't worry," she said, taking yet another long swig for herself. "They're fine. No one's driving. So long as Pyro doesn't burn the place down—"

Scott held out his hand, setting his jaw firmly. "Give me the bottle."

0

Not an hour later, Scott was laughing. "Man. This doesn't hurt at _all _anymore."

They'd only gone through about a third of the bottle, but Rogue was feeling just fine. And Scott couldn't be far behind, judging from the way he was lounging against her bed all pink faced and grinning.

He was cute when he was bad, she decided.

"Nothing hurts after awhile," she pointed out.

She shouldn't have said it. His face suddenly got all serious, his lips pressed into a thin line across his face, and he apparently remembered his terms. "Why are you sad?"

She tried the oblivious tactic first. "What?"

He was either too drunk to realize what she meant, or hadn't heard her at all. "I mean," he waved one hand in the air vaguely. "Aside from everything I already know about why you'd be sad. You said you'd tell me."

She took another drink. Her stomach rebelled and she decided it was time to stop. Before she puked.

She'd broken the cardinal rule— Liquor before beer, never fear; Beer before liquor, never sicker.

"I don't remember," she lied, leaning over Scott clumsily to put the bottle up on the end table.

He didn't seem to notice. "You're lying!"

She sighed and sat back on her butt with a thump. Yeah, that wasn't going to feel great tomorrow either. Good work, drunk girl.

"Shut up, Scott," was all she said.

He sat up a little straighter and turned to face her now, pulling one leg up under him and stretching the other one out under the bed behind her. "Is it Remy?" he asked, all pink-faced earnestness.

She didn't look at him. She… well she guessed she… _could _tell him. But what if telling him made it okay? Then she'd be happy, right?

Wait. Why didn't she want to be happy?

"Is he bothering you?" he pressed.

"Jesusfuck," she sighed at him, turning to meet his eyes with what she considered a great deal of bravery under the circs. "Why does everyone assume—"

"Um…" Scott cut her off in a rare moment of sarcasm. "Because he's a creepy stalker guy, I guess?"

She sighed. Actually, Scott was the one who knew the most about her… issues with Remy LeBeau. They'd had conversations about it before… just not recently. Scott had her back.

That was okay. He was loyal, like Jean-Paul. Only more… heroic. Upright and shit.

Still, she wasn't giving up that easy. "He flirts with everyone," she pointed out.

Remy _did _flirt with everyone. But she knew what he'd said to her was true—it didn't mean a thing to him. She knew how his brain worked and she knew it was just the way he was. Flirting was like breathing, just like with Aurora or Roberto. It was what they did. She got that.

But Scott probably didn't. Because Scott was… _good_.

"Yeah," he seemed to wilt a little, slouching and letting his hands fall listlessly into his lap. "He was flirting with Jean the other day pretty bad. I got… mad. Not as mad as her… but mad."

Yeah well, wouldn't be the first time Jean had flipped and Scott had pouted instead of flipping back. Still, this time Rogue got the impression that the very fact he'd gotten mad at all bothered him. "So you're really over it, huh?"

He ought to fucking be. He'd been trying to break up with her for a month before he finally had, and it'd been months since then. But he never really said much about it afterward, so she'd just assumed everything was a-okay. Or… whatever it was normal people were. Happy.

"No," he said. Then he shook his head and sighed. "I mean yeah, I guess. It's just weird when you think you want someone for so long and then…" and he looked up and caught her eyes.

She felt her cheeks go a little red, all that bourbon in her stomach starting to boil.

Goddammit. She should never have told him about her crush back in the day. "Don't be weird," she warned him. And herself, but like fuck she'd admit to that.

He got that indignant expression on his face again, magnified about ten times by his inebriated state so that he looked like a really pissed off little boy. In red sunglasses. "I'm not weird."

Yeah, right. And she wasn't goth. Meanwhile, back on Planet Reality…

"Anyhow," he continued, suddenly sitting a little straighter again, "we were talking about Remy."

"He's fine as an X-Man," she admitted. She had no complaints there—the only person who really could was Scott. Their occasional fights were mostly just fun for everyone else, and neither of them would ever let it get in the way of, you know. Saving lives and beating the bad guys. "But I figured out why he wants me and it's a real bitch."

"Oh yeah?"

"He wants me because he can't have me."

Scott wrinkled up his nose at her. "That's kinda left field, isn't it?"

Yeah, well, Scott Summers would think that. "No," she insisted, pulling her knees up to her chest and turning to face him, so one side was leaning against the bed. She crossed her arms over her knees and leaned her chin on them. "His mind is backwards. I know. He doesn't think like you."

"Me?"

She just raised her eyebrows. Was there someone else in the room? An imaginary friend?

He seemed like the type to have imaginary friends. She was just about to ask him when he asked, "How do I think?"

"Straight," she supplied readily. "You want it, you go for it."

"I… do." It was almost a question, but not quite.

Rogue didn't feel whatever trepidation Scott did about her analysis. "Yeah. I mean, you're… honest."

He cocked his head, making a slightly pained face. "Is that bad?"

She almost laughed. Wow… he was even weirder when he was drunk. Kinda insecure and… cute. Lucky she hadn't seen him like this a year or two ago because man… that would've been shitty for her. You know. Back then.

"No," she grinned, but managed not to laugh at him. Miraculously. "I think it's great. I never woulda trusted you guys if not for that."

He looked pleased by this explanation. He wasn't exactly radiating emotion or anything, but he smiled a lot more easily with some JD in him. "So he's… not honest?" He was visibly working to pull the threads together.

One of the greatest tactical minds of their time. Done in by Kentucky sour mash.

"He's crooked as an old man's back. Honorable but kinda in a bass ackward way," she explained as best she could. To say anymore probably wouldn't be … right or whatever. It wasn't Scott's business about Remy's fucked up code of honor and Remy's fucked-up family of thieves. So all she said was, "I know I'm right. I just thought he would've given up by now."

And she meant that, at least. He was the only person she knew who would purposely torture himself for this long.

Well, aside from her.

"I could beat him up for you," Scott suggested, very seriously.

She smiled crookedly. She'd have been offended a year ago—she could beat her own boys up thanks very much. But knowing Scott it was pretty funny. "You'd like that wouldn't you?"

He shook his head. Then stopped, held still, and changed his mind. "Yeah. A little." Then he stopped again. And grinned outright. "Okay, a lot."

She laughed, but silently. And hugged her knees to her chest a little tighter. "Wonder what makes a man want to torture himself like that. You know, Scotty?"

"Is it really torture to… like you?" he asked. A little quietly.

She rolled her eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that night and let her knees go. She tucked her legs up lotus style, one of her knees just barely brushing against Scott's. She really didn't even notice—which was a testament to just how little pain she was feeling right then. "No one can _touch _me. I mean, all night tonight, everyone was dancing and hugging and kissing. And…"

And Cody.

Just like that she was back there. She'd remembered too much. She shot a covetous look at the bottle now resting on the table over Scott's head.

But she couldn't stop talking for some reason. It was just spilling out of her like she'd split her seams. "I mean the first party like that I went to, I fucked someone's life up."

He seemed to consider this very seriously.

She spent a moment feeling stupid.

Then he said, "Well, I'm touching you now."

She looked down at where his knee was pressing against hers. And sighed. "It ain't the same."

He tucked his hand up into his sleeve like a little turtle pulling into its shell. Then he leaned over his own lap and laid his covered hand over hers. "That's not bad," he pointed out, looking up and catching her eyes.

She felt her face starting to burn again. And this time there was no fire to blame. She opened her mouth to tell him that yes, it was bad. It was terrible. Because what she really wanted…

"You don't understand," was all she could croak out. She blinked away the blurriness starting to invade her vision.

He took her hand off his and she started to breathe again. She took the moment of silence to compose herself, to wipe away anything she might've been starting to think or feel or… whatever.

"It's not the same, you're right," he said as she sat there breathing, looking around the room like he was missing something. Something that would make it all better. After just a second he grabbed at her bed sheet—a thin silken purple thing—and pulled half of it down to the floor with them. She watched, silent, heart in her throat, as he put it over his hand and reached out for her again. Covered her hand with his.

She shouldn't have taken her gloves off when she'd come in. She hadn't expected company… she hadn't known.

"That's better," he said quietly.

She couldn't look him in the eye all the sudden. She was blinking too hard. Something in her eye or something. Jesus.

His hand was warm through the silk. She could feel the outline of his fingers there, all of them separate and… human and…

She pulled her hand back suddenly, leaving his on her leg. "Yeah," she stuttered, lacing her fingers together. For protection.

He just looked at her for a few minutes, his mouth twitching just slightly into a frown, then a straight line again. All she knew was that he was fighting for his usual control… and he definitely couldn't find it.

"You don't want to touch anyone," he said finally, taking his hand off her leg and putting the sheet back on the bed where it belonged.

"I didn't say…" She wanted to argue, but she trailed off. She didn't know what she wanted at that moment. She didn't like this feeling, whatever it was.

Maybe being drunk. That was probably a good guess. Yeah, that.

"If you wanted to, there's a million ways." His voice was steady. He was trying to be Cyclops.

But his mouth was still trying to frown. No matter how much he was fighting it, she could see it on his face.

"You know there are," he accused evenly.

What? Inhibitor collars like Sinister used on his victims?

Yes, a little voice in her head told her. Just like that. Just now and then, so you can feel human.

Silk sheets? What the fuck?

Yes, she knew it was true. That and a million other things.

"You're drunk," she said, pulling her knees back up to her chest.

"So what?" he shot back a little too quickly. "Don't tell me it never occurred to you before that you could get around it, Rogue."

What the hell did he care anyhow? It was none of his goddamn business what had occurred to her and what hadn't. He didn't _understand_.

Finally he stood up. Unsteadily, but he managed heroically—just like he managed everything else. Then he looked down on her, still pink faced and fucking adorable, and said the worst thing possible. "I think you and Remy LeBeau are a perfect match, you know that?"

She wanted to be outraged. She wanted to beat the hell out of him.

All she did, however, was stutter, "Why?" Still curled up on the floor in a little protective ball.

"Because you both want to run away from nothing, but convince the rest of us that you don't." Then he sighed and shook his head just a little, like he was trying to get his bearings. "This is home, Rogue. It's me. I mean… we could…" his lack of words (also possibly due to drunkenness, though it was hard to imagine heartfelt confessions being a specialty of his under any circumstances) was apparently so frustrating he just gave up right there.

She swallowed hard.

Goddammit, why now? Why not back then? Why… tonight?

"I never thought you'd want to." She uncurled herself and stood as she spoke. To face him. Maybe she could… but… she couldn't, right?

It was too late though. His jaw was clenched hard, she could see the muscles in his face working as he ground his teeth. She knew that look.

Her heart sank. And not in that good painful way.

"Apparently it doesn't matter if I do. You don't."

She watched him go without saying a word. The door closed behind him. And Rogue just sat down on her bed, still clutching at her own bare hands fitfully.

After a few moments, she managed to say out loud, "Yes I do."

But she wasn't sure if she was lying or not.

The only thing she was sure of, in fact, was that she fucking hated St. Patrick's Day.


End file.
